CERDA

There was once a city of Gaul named Ilitro, a heathen city. It was

encircled by a strong wall, with towers and a moat. There was a

drawbridge, for carts to enter the city, which was drawn up at night,

for the country was often disturbed by warlike bands; beside the great

drawbridge was a little bridge, which could be lowered and drawn up as

well; the great bridge was hauled up at sundown, and no cart might

enter the city after that time; but the little bridge could be lowered

till midnight for a traveller, if he was honest.

The tower was kept by a porter named Cerda, a rough, strong man, who

had an impediment in his speech, and spake with few; he lived all

alone in the tower. There were two rooms; in the lower room were the

weights which drew up the bridge, and a wheel which wound up the

chains, with another wheel for the smaller bridge, and a fireplace

where the porter cooked his food; in the room above, which was

approached by a ladder, there was a table and a chair, and a bed of

boards with straw upon it, where he slept. The windows were guarded by

shutters, and in winter time it was sorely cold in the tower; but the

porter heeded it not, for he was a strong and rough man; he had a wild

air, and his long shaggy locks fell on his shoulders. But though he

spake little and few spoke to him, he had a loving heart full of

tender thoughts which he could not put into words. He was fond of

flowers and green trees, and would sometimes walk in the woods that

came up to the castle wall, in springtime, with a secret joy in the

scent of the flowers and their soft bright heads; he liked to watch

the wild animals, and the birds had no fear of him, for he fed them

often with crumbs and grain; and they would come on his window-ledge

and chirp for food. Sometimes a child who passed the bridge would

smile at him, and he would smile back and be glad; to some children

whom he knew he would shyly give simple presents--carts carved out of

wood, or a wooden sword; but he was so rough and uncouth a man that

their elders were not pleased that he should speak with them; and

indeed most people spoke of him as of one who could be trusted indeed

to do hard toil punctually like a beast of burden, but whose mind was

not wholly sound, but like that of a dog or ox. But he did his duty so

faithfully, and was moreover so strong and fearless, if there was any

troublesome comer to deal with, that he was held to be useful in his

place. He had no courtesy for grown men, who heeded him no more than

if he had been a machine; but he was kind and gentle with women and

maidens, and would carry their burdens for them into the city, as far

as he might--for he was forbidden to go out of sight of the bridge.

One day, indeed, he had some talk to a grave, quiet man, a traveller,

who came like a merchant to the city, and yet seemed to have no

business to do. He was indeed a Christian priest, who was on his way

to the West; for there were then a few scattered congregations of

Christians in Gaul, though the faith was not yet known through the

land. And the priest, seeing something wistful in the rude porter's

eye, something that seemed dumbly to ask for love, asked him if he

prayed; and the porter with a stammering tongue said some words of the

gods of the land; but the priest, who loved to let the good seed fall

even by the wayside, told him of the Father of all, and of the Divine

Son who came to teach the world the truth, and was slain by wicked

men.

Cerda felt a strange hope in his heart, half pity and half joy; and

the priest told him that any man in any place could speak to the

Father when he would, and he repeated to him a prayer that he might

say; but Cerda forgot all the prayer except the first two words, _Our

Father_, and, indeed, he did not understand the rest. But he would say

those words over and over as he went about his work, and he would add,

out of his own mind, a wish that he might see the Father; for he

thought that He might some day come to the city, to see His sons

there--for the priest had told him that all men were His sons. So the

porter kept watch for the Father's coming; and he hoped that he might

know Him if He came.

Now one day there was a great storm of rain and wind. The wind beat

on the tower, and the rain rustled in the moat; and Cerda at sundown

drew up the dripping bridges, and made all safe, knowing that he would

not be disturbed again that night. He sat long that night listening to

the wind, which seemed to have a sad and homeless voice in it, and

then he remembered suddenly that he had not eaten, and he began to

prepare his food. He had a little piece of meat in the house, which a

citizen had given him, and bread, and a few berries which he had

gathered in the wood; so he began to cook the meat; and it was about

midnight, and the storm was fiercer than ever; when in a pause in the

gust he thought he heard a cry out of the wood across the moat. He

listened, but it came not again, and so he fell to his cooking. Then

all at once the wind stopped, and he heard the rain whisper on the

wall, when suddenly came the cry again, a very faint cry, like the

crying of a child. He threw open the shutter of the window that looked

to the wood, and in the glimmering dark, for there was a sickly light

from the moon which laboured among the clouds, he thought he saw a

little figure stand on the edge of the moat. It was dreary enough

outside, but he went to the wheel and let the small bridge down, and

then he went to the little gate and crossed the slippery plank with

care.

There, near the lip of the moat, stood a little child, a boy that

seemed to be about ten years old, all drenched and shivering, with his

face streaming with rain. Cerda did not know the child, but asked him,

as well as he could for his stammering speech, what he was doing there

and what he desired. The child seemed frightened, and covered his face

with his hands; but Cerda drew his hands away, not unkindly, and felt

how cold and wet the little arms were. Then the child said that he had

wandered from the way, and that seeing a light he had come near, and

had found himself on the edge of the moat, and had cried out in case

any one might hear him. Then Cerda asked him again what he was doing;

and the child said timidly that he was about his father's business.

Cerda was vexed that a father should be so careless of his child, but

he could not understand from the child what the business might be.

So at last he said that the child must come into the tower with him,

and that he would give him shelter for the night, and that in the

morning he would make search for his father. But it was not with a

very good grace that he said it, because he was now himself wetted;

moreover, he was weary, and would fain have eaten his meal and slept

undisturbed. Then the child shrank back from the slippery plank, so

Cerda lifted him in his arms and carried him across. Then he pulled up

the bridge again and shut the door, but the child seemed ill at ease.

So Cerda did what he could to cheer him, wrung the water from his

clothes and hair and covered him with a cloak and made him sit by the

fire. Then he gave him of his own meat and drink, and brought the

berries, bidding him see how fair they were. And the child ate and

drank, looking at Cerda with wide open eyes and saying nought.

He looked to Cerda a frail and weakly child, and his wonder and even

anger increased at those that had let such a child be about at that

hour; and then he saw that the child was weary, so he carried him up

the ladder, still wrapped in the cloak, and laid him on his bed and

bid him sleep; and then he went down softly to satisfy his own hunger,

and was surprised to see that the food was not diminished but rather

seemed increased. So Cerda ate and drank, once or twice ascending the

ladder to see if the child slept. And when at last he seemed to sleep,

then Cerda himself went up and sat in his chair and thought that he

would sleep too; but before sleep came upon him he said his words of

prayer many times over, and added his further prayer that he might see

the Father.

But while he did so it came into his mind how often he had said the

same thing, and yet that nothing had happened to bless him; and he

thought that the old priest had told him that the Father always

listened to the voice of His sons; but then he bethought him that the

Father had so many sons, and so wide a land to see to--though he only

pictured the world as a few villages and towns like his own, with a

greater town called Rome somewhere in the East--that he comforted

himself by thinking that the Father had not had time to visit his

city, and still less to visit one so humble as himself; and then a

fear came into his mind that among the travellers who had passed the

Father might have passed and he had not recognised him.

Then at last Cerda slept, his head down upon his breast, and the wind

died down outside and left a breathless stillness, save for the drops

that fell from the eaves of the tower; and then he dreamed a very

strange dream. He thought that he was walking in a wood, and came upon

a great open space, down into which descended a wide staircase out of

the sky. It was all dark and cloudy at the top, but the clouds were

lit with a fierce inner light that touched the edges, as in a winter

sunset, with a hue of flame. From the cloud emerged a figure, at first

dim, like a wreath of cloud, but slowly defining itself into the shape

of a man, who came down slowly and serenely, looking about him as he

stepped with a quiet greatness; when he came near the bottom of the

ladder he beckoned Cerda to approach, who came trembling; but the

other smiled so tenderly that Cerda forgot his fears and fell on his

knees at the staircase foot; and the man went down to him and said,

"Cerda, thy prayers are heard, and thy patience is noted; and thou

shalt indeed see the Father." And as he said the words a great ray of

light came from the cloud and seemed to brighten all the place.

Cerda woke with a start, the voice still sounding in his ears; woke

to find the room all alight--and he thought for a moment that it was

broad day, and that he had for the first time neglected his duty and

left the bridge unclosed. But in a moment he saw that it was not the

light of day, but a very pure and white radiance, such as the moon

makes on the face of a still pool in woods, seen afar from a height.

The whole room was lit by it, so that he could see the beams of the

roof and the rough stones of the wall. Then he saw that the child had

risen from the bed, and that the radiance seemed brightest all about

him; it was the same face, but all brightened and glorified; and the

child seemed to be clad in a dim white robe of a soft and cloudlike

texture. And then all at once Cerda felt that he was in the presence

of a very high and holy mystery, such as he had hardly dreamed the

world contained, and it came strangely into his mind, with a shock of

awe and almost horror, that this was the child to whom he had spoken

impatiently, whom he had fed and tended, and whose body he had carried

in his arms; and he fell on his knees and hid his face and could not

look on the child's face.

Then he heard a very low voice that was yet so clear that Cerda felt

it would be heard all through the city, that said, "Cerda, good and

faithful servant of God, thou hast believed and therefore hast thou

seen," and "He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father."

Then there came into Cerda's mind a great rush of beautiful thoughts;

it was as though the tower had burst forth into bloom and was all

filled with lilies and roses. He knew that all men were sons of the

Father, and that the Father waited for them to come to Him; and he saw

that each man's life was a path which led to the Father, and that the

rougher the path was the more surely did it conduct them; and he saw

too, though he could not have said it to another, that it mattered not

how or where a man lived, or how humble or even hateful his task might

be, since the Father knew best what each of His sons needed, and

placed him where he could best find the way; and he saw, too, that

those who seemed to wander in misery or even wickedness, were being

secretly drawn to the Father's heart all the time; all this he saw,

and many other high and holy things which it is not possible for human

lips to speak. But he knew in his heart that a peace was given him

which nothing, not even the heaviest affliction, could ever trouble

again. And then the light died out; and looking up he saw the child

once more, but now very faintly, as though far off but yet near; and

then all was dark. And Cerda slept the sleep of a little child. And in

the morning when he woke, he knew at once that the world was a

different place. Hunger, cold, and weariness were but like clouds that

hid the sun for a season; but the vision was the truth. And he went

about his daily toil with so joyful a heart that it seemed as though

his feet were winged.

And that day there came by an old citizen, whom Cerda had heard by

report was held to be a Christian; and he looked upon Cerda for a

moment in silence, with a kind of wonder in his face. But Cerda could

find no words to tell him what had befallen him, till the old man

said, "Can it be, Cerda, that you know the truth? for there seems to

be something in your face which makes me ask you." And Cerda found

words to say that though he knew but little of Christ, yet he believed

in Him. "Oh, it matters not," said the other, "what we know _of_

Christ, so long as we know _Him_; but you, my brother," he added,

"look as you might look if you had seen the Lord face to face." "I

think I have," said Cerda. And the old man doubted not, but went away

pondering, knowing that the wise and prudent might not know what was

revealed unto babes. But no man ever knew why for the rest of his days

(for he died as a porter) Cerda slept only in his chair, and never lay

down upon his bed; or why, before he closed the little gate, he always

knelt for a moment to pray where the feet of the child had stood upon

the brink of the moat.